Don't Turn Around Page 2

  Cait had left in a hurry—late, as always—and hadn’t managed to get dinner. Hunger was mixed in with exhaustion, gritting her eyes and making her bones heavy. A cup of coffee and maybe a slice of pie would be enough to keep her going. “Do you mind if we stop once we’re over the border?”

  Rebecca’s head snapped toward her. “Why?”

  “I need a cup of coffee. I’ve been on the road since six o’clock.”

  The corners of her pretty mouth turned down. “I guess. If you need to.”

  “Thanks. It’ll be quick, I promise. I know you’re nervous, but we’re out of the danger zone now.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Ninety percent of all incidents occur within the first ten minutes of the journey. Most of the trouble I’ve seen has happened right outside the front door. Now that we’re out of Lubbock, it should be smooth sailing.”

  Rebecca nodded but didn’t look convinced. She had the kind of profile that belonged on a Roman coin, all straight nose and firm jaw. Patrician. Cait smiled at her own description: it was good, she should write it down. Maybe she could use it.

  In the meantime, she needed to work out that piece she’d been writing about labor conditions at the organic farm outside of Austin. The editor had been requesting the copy for weeks, but she hadn’t been able to land it. Not that he had much of a right to complain considering how much he was paying her, which was nothing. Still, she couldn’t risk pissing him off. It was rare that someone gave her a chance, especially these days.

  A sign announced that they were leaving Littlefield. They were edging toward the desert now. Pretty soon there’d be nothing but scrub and sky. Her stomach rumbled. She couldn’t get to Clovis fast enough. It would be her last chance to get a decent cup of coffee that night.

  She glanced over at the woman sitting next to her. “You comfortable? You want me to put the heat on or anything?”

  Rebecca shook her head. “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Just let me know. It’s supposed to get down to the twenties tonight. They’re saying it might even snow.” She reached out and patted the dashboard. “Don’t worry, she’s good in the snow.”

  Rebecca gave her a weak smile. “That’s good to know,” she said, before turning her face back toward the window.

  So she wasn’t a talker. That was fine. There was plenty of time for that.

  Nine Months Earlier

  Cait rolled off the bed and stumbled into the bathroom. The bulb had blown, so she had to feel her way to the toilet in the dark, careful not to hit her head on the sloped wall. She could hear his soft snores over the sound of her piss hitting the bowl. Good. She hadn’t woken him up.

  When she was finished, she stood up carefully and turned to look at herself in the mirror. Her eyes had adjusted to the light now, and she could see the dark hollows of her eyes and a glint of teeth in the reflection. She pressed her forehead to the glass. What the fuck are you doing here? she asked herself, but she didn’t have an answer. The snores continued.

  It was Alyssa’s fault. She was the one who had insisted they go to Cedar Street for her birthday, even though the place was a hellhole filled with drunk college kids and tourists looking for an “authentic experience.” She had whined about it for weeks until Caitlyn finally threw in the towel, which was exactly what Alyssa knew she would do, if only to shut her up. Alyssa had squealed and thrown her arms around Cait’s neck when she agreed, and seeing her friend happy almost made up for the prospect of one of her precious nights off being spent dodging frat boys sloshing tequila over her sneakers.

  What could she say? When it came to her friends, she was a sucker. That’s what her mother said when she’d come home from school having traded her brand-new silver pencil case for Melissa Brandino’s beat-up old red one after Melissa convinced her that silver matched her polished Mary Janes better than Cait’s beat-up Keds. “Oh, Caity,” her mother had said, shaking her head and sighing. “You’re too nice sometimes.”

  In fairness, it had been a long time since someone had described her as too nice.

  So they went to Cedar Street, and sure enough, within ten minutes someone had spilled tequila on her brand-new Nikes and she’d watched a girl projectile-vomit onto the door of the bathroom stall. “Remind me why we’re here again?” she’d said to Alyssa, but Alyssa was too busy showing off her Birthday Girl badge to a bunch of tech bros to notice. Cait slinked off to the bar and ordered herself a double Maker’s, neat, and tipped it down her throat in one burning gulp. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. That was when she spotted Jake striding across the courtyard, every pair of female eyes in a twenty-foot radius trailing after him. Hers, too.

  She knew about him already. A guy who came into the bar was a music journalist for the Digg, and he’d been singing Jake’s praises over one too many Sierras the other night, saying he was the next big thing. She was curious, so when she finished her shift, she went home and looked him up on Spotify. Country music wasn’t exactly her jam, despite—or maybe because of—growing up deep in the heart of Texas, but even she could admit he had something special. His voice was a low growl over the delicate guitar riffs, deep and compelling and sexy as all hell.

  She’d checked on Alyssa, who now had her tongue shoved firmly down the throat of one of the tech bros, before ducking out of the bar and following Jake a few blocks to the Pearl on Fourth Street. She wasn’t sure why she was doing it—she didn’t make a habit out of following strange men—but something about seeing him like that had made it feel a little like fate, as corny as that sounded to her.

  She stayed in the back as he took the stage and went through his sound check. Given the level of drunkenness she’d witnessed at Cedar Street, she figured it was well past midnight, but when she checked the time on her phone, it was just a little past ten o’clock. She signaled the bartender for a beer and settled her back against the bar as he strummed the opening chords.

  The Pearl was relatively empty—it was a Monday night, after all—but the place started filling up quickly, drawn by the sound of his voice. She was drawn, too, and soon found herself in front of the stage, swaying her hips to the music and watching sweat roll down his face from the lights.

  They locked eyes, and she saw a little smirk flash across his lips. Cocky. She liked that. She kept dancing, feeling his eyes roaming across her body, seeing the desire start to flare. She swerved her hips and ran her fingers through her hair. You’re mine, she thought, and the power thrilled her.

  He finished the set and climbed down off the stage and the inevitable happened: the sweaty make-out session in the back and the fumbling cab ride to his apartment, which was still very much the place of a struggling musician and not one about to make the big time.

  The sex started out routine enough—she was on top for a while, and then he flipped her over onto her back. It was good, though there was something about the way he focused on a spot just slightly above her head rather than looking her in the eye that made her think she could be anyone, really, and he wouldn’t care. She didn’t care, either, particularly—this was sex, not a betrothal—but she wouldn’t have minded him paying a little more attention to getting her off.

  And then, just when she thought he was about to finish, he put his hands around her neck and tightened them so she almost—but not quite—lost consciousness. She struggled at first, clawing at his back, gripping his hands and trying to pry them away from her neck, but the struggle only seemed to excite him more, and the lack of oxygen to her brain made her weaker and weaker until she finally went limp. He let go long enough to shove his cock in her mouth and call her a fucking whore as he came, and then he kissed her on the cheek—not the mouth, not after she’d swallowed—and rolled over and went to sleep.

  She took her clothes into the living room and, body huddled from the air-conditioning, pulled on her jeans and hooked her bra and slipped her shirt over her head, keeping her head very still as she did, so as not to strain her sore neck. There would be br
uises in the morning, bruises she’d dot carefully with concealer to avoid answering the inevitable questions—jokes, more likely—from the guys at the bar.

  He hadn’t asked if she was into that sort of thing. He’d clearly just assumed she would be or hadn’t cared if she wasn’t. So much for the sensitive-singer-songwriter bullshit. He was just another straight-up asshole in a long line of assholes who took what they wanted without bothering to ask. She was sick and tired of it. She remembered the music journalist back at the bar saying Jake was just about to land a big tour, that he’d be a national name in a couple of months. No wonder he thought he could get away with this kind of shit.

  This time, she decided, it was going to cost him.

  She ordered a Lyft from the curb outside his apartment. Nine minutes away: plenty of time. She pulled a notebook and a pen out of her bag and made a few notes. By the time the car arrived, she was halfway to writing the article that would change her life.

  Amherst, Texas—278 Miles to Albuquerque

  Rebecca had watched the silhouette of the city disappear in the side-view mirror until it was swallowed up by the night sky. Only then did she let herself take a full breath.

  It was easier now that they were out of Lubbock. It was the first step, and the biggest.

  When the Jeep had pulled up outside the house, she’d sat in the dark of their bedroom, hands folded neatly in her lap, and listened to the faint rumble of the Jeep’s engine. This was what she had wanted—what she had carefully planned—but now that it was here, she was paralyzed. Five minutes passed, then ten. They had told her the driver would wait for twenty minutes—no longer. At the fifteen-minute mark, she grabbed her bag and ran to the door. If she hesitated for even a second, she knew she’d never make it. When she stepped out into the freezing night, there was no bolt of lightning waiting to strike. No corrective zap from an electric fence. Just a girl in a Jeep, waiting for her.

  Rebecca couldn’t believe how quiet the neighborhood was at that time of night. The low thrum of the engine and the distant cry of a skulk of foxes. She could hear her heart pounding in her chest as she checked the lock on the door, and the soft pad of her footsteps as she walked across the pavement. It was easy, in the end.

  Still, the same worries snagged in her head. What if he comes home early? What if someone found out my plans and told him? They promised total confidentiality over the phone, but I know how people operate. No one can be trusted, especially not if there might be money involved. And with this, there would be.

  Rebecca looked over at the girl. She was young: somewhere in her mid-twenties. Just a baby, really. She had expected someone older. It felt strange being driven by someone so much younger, a reversal of the natural order.

  She turned her eyes back to the road. Nothing. Nothing. Silo. Nothing. Nothing. Storage unit. She felt tiny out here, like one of those paper dolls she had played with as a girl.

  Nearly three years in Texas and the place still felt as strange and alien as it had the first time she’d set foot in it.

  She still felt like a stranger in the place she was meant to call home.

  Three Years Earlier

  Patrick’s eyes blue and burning-earnest when he said it, a smudge of cream sauce in the corner of his beautiful mouth. “It’s time, sweetheart,” he said, leaning across the table and taking her hand.

  Rebecca stopped mid-bite, fork hovering in the air. “I didn’t realize there was a clock.”

  “I know it sounds crazy, but I promise you, you’ll love it there. Wide-open spaces, fresh air, salt-of-the-earth people . . . Come on, Becs. You’ve seen how the place is changing, the same as me. It’s like living in a museum. No one real lives here anymore.”

  It was true: San Francisco had changed. She had seen it every day at the high school where she taught English: families forced to move because of the skyrocketing rents, the homeless population exploding, the mental health of her students pushed aside in pursuit of ever higher test scores. Tech had flooded the city with its venture capitalist riches, whitewashing away its grimy charm. Even the restaurant they were eating in had a sign on the door announcing a relocation to Oakland. When they asked the waiter about it, he shrugged and said, “Progress.”

  Still, the Bay Area was the only place she’d ever called home. “Our lives are here.”

  “Our lives are wherever we are, as long as we’re together.” He shook his head. “I want to go home, Becs. Please. My grandma’s on her own out there, and she’s getting old. I need to step up and take responsibility.”

  “My dad’s on his own, too.”

  “Your dad is in his early sixties and in better shape than I am. Gram is going to be eighty next year. You saw the state the house was in when we went back last Christmas. She can’t look after the place anymore.”

  “We could hire someone to help her,” she suggested. “Or she could move into one of those assisted living facilities. I’ve heard some of them are really nice these days. More like luxury hotels than nursing homes.” She was grasping at straws.

  “You know Gram will never leave that house. She’s always said they’d have to carry her out in a pine box, and I have no doubt that she means it.” He took her hand again, the warmth of his skin on hers so familiar. “I know I’m asking a lot, but I really do think you’ll love it in Lubbock. The people are genuine, and there’s so much space . . . so many more opportunities . . .” He took a breath. “Working for the DA—it’s not enough. There’s more I could be doing. If I were a congressman, or a senator—”

  “Because congressmen are renowned for their efficacy,” she pointed out, a little too sourly.

  He held up his hands. “I know, I know. But I still think I could be more effective in an elected position than I can be here trying to cut deals with low-level drug dealers and prostitutes. It’s just—there’s no way I could get elected here. You know how entrenched politics are in California. Back in Texas, I’d be a local boy, one with a proven record in a blue state. It’d make me a strong candidate. The demographics are shifting. I really think I have a shot.”

  She pictured him shaking hands and holding babies, a banner with his name stretched across the stage behind him. Their friends always said he should go into politics. She just hadn’t realized it was what he wanted, too.

  She reached for the gold cross around her neck. She tried to see herself standing up on a stage next to him, smiling proudly as the crowd showered him with love. Because they would love him. She knew that as sure as she knew her own name. Everyone loved Patrick. He was one of life’s golden boys. It was what had drawn her to him in the first place. Out of all the women in the world, he had chosen her. She knew that made her lucky.

  She should have known that eventually, he would want the world, too.

  She stared at him across the table. His eyes were eager, searching, but there was something else there. The quiet confidence of someone who always wins and knows his streak isn’t about to end. He was used to getting what he wanted, and she had always been willing to give it to him.

  “Two years,” she said, folding her napkin and placing it on the table. “I’ll give it two years, but if I hate it, we move back here for good.”

  “Deal.” His smile nearly split his face in two. “Becky, honey, I promise you won’t regret this. I really do believe I could have a gift for political work. If I can get in a position of power, I can make a real difference.”

  She convinced herself that it was a victory. Two years was nothing in the grand scheme of things, and maybe a change of scene would do them both good. Didn’t she keep complaining about how the city was grinding her down? The school budgets had been slashed to ribbons, she hadn’t had a raise in years, the classroom sizes were ballooning just as resources were dwindling. It wouldn’t be hard to get her teaching accreditation in Texas. She could have a couple easy years teaching in a nice suburban school, maybe take a few grad classes on the side. They could get a bigger place there—a house, even, with a front yar
d and a garage and a car. No more brushing their teeth on top of each other. No more sweaty bus rides uptown lugging bags of groceries.

  Big skies. Open plains. Patrick by her side.

  Two years was nothing. A blip on the radar screen.

  She didn’t know then just how quickly a life could be obliterated, like a sandcastle at high tide.

  Sudan, Texas—272 Miles to Albuquerque

  Rebecca glanced at the clock. It was close to one a.m., which would be eleven on the West Coast. Maybe he was asleep already, or maybe he was in the hotel bar drinking a vodka tonic with one of those “Hello, My Name Is” labels still stuck to his shirt, as if the people there wouldn’t know the name of the keynote speaker. She had spoken to him earlier that evening, after he’d given his talk but before he’d gone to dinner. He was fresh from the shower—he always showered before dinner—and she could hear him getting dressed over the speaker, the sound of silk slipping through his fingers as he looped his tie around his neck. She’d answered his usual questions—Was she taking it easy? Had she eaten lunch? Had she set the house alarm?—and promised to call him first thing in the morning. She told him that she loved him, and that she missed him, even if the truth was more complicated.

  She reached into her bag, wrapped her fingers around the hard plastic of her cell phone, dropped it. It was late—if he was going to call, he would have done so already. He didn’t like to wake her up. Still, cold fingers of fear brushed against her neck. If he called and she didn’t answer, would he send someone to the house to check on her? And if they saw she wasn’t at home, would they find a way to track her down?

  She thought of the papers tucked into her bag. Maybe he already had. Maybe they were already on their way.

  She gripped the handle on the door, knuckles white. Her lungs tightened. It was happening again: the walls closing in, the darkness creeping at the edge of her vision. The Jeep was suddenly too small, a tiny metal cage, there wasn’t enough air for them both. She was inhaling Cait’s breath, and Cait was inhaling hers, and that meant they were using up all the oxygen. They were going to suffocate in this stupid tin can that smelled like stale cigarette smoke and fake pine and Cait’s shampoo and the perfume that Patrick had given her for her thirty-fifth birthday and God how could she survive this, how could she survive?